What They Don't Know
by HuntressDaugher
Summary: And he walks off into the dark. His usual swaggering gait is gone, but he holds his head high until he gets halfway down the block. There it changes so that it hangs, and his feet more or less shuffle through the dirt.


Everyone thinks they know Spot Conlon. His boys know their leader best, other newsies know his habits, and New Yorkers have heard of the King of Brooklyn. They know how he can drink, his womanizing ways, and that's he's the toughest newsie and leader in all New York. They know the wrath his legendary cane can inflict on a misfortunate person, and that you'd better watch your valuables on the street.

I know Spot Conlon is one hell of a great actor.

As we sit around a card table at the lodging house, Spot smirks at his hand. A normal person would take this as a sign that he has a good hand. I don't. Spot doesn't give signs like that. If he has a good hand, there's a faint scrunch of his nose. I move my eyes from his face to his cards and note the tiny rip in the top right corner of one that came from a scuffle a few months ago; it's the Queen of Hearts.

Spot's been off tonight, not engaged in our joking as much and loosing rounds. The King of Brooklyn has been moping around since he first walked through the door. He's slouched in his chair, chin propped up in his palm, so it's no wonder that the corners of Jack's lips twitch when he catches him. He's sighed too much for safety, and it's making me nervous.

We all have our drinks, courtesy of Skittery. Spot has been nursing his single glass since it was poured. Only two people know the poor fellow can't hold his alcohol worth beans, and I'm one of them, but this is nothing in comparison to how he usually hides it.

It's maybe an hour later when Spot slaps his cards down. A three and the Queen of Hearts. He stretches his arms behind his head. "Boys, I think I'm done. Need to get back to Brooklyn. Didn't sell today, and you've almost cleaned me out. See you in a few weeks."

"I'm out too," I say. I drop my cards too. One by one, the others follow; first Jack, then Mush, Blink, and Skittery.

Spot stands, and we make our way to the door. We sit down on the top stoop just outside. I hand him a cigarette—I didn't make enough for a few cigars today—and take one myself. We light up.

"Did you go see her," I ask, exhaling. I know the answer.

Spot gets another puff before answering. "Yeah."

"When?"

"I went last night. Left this morning."

"So why're you so bummed out?" I know the reason to this as well.

Head bowed, Spot shrugs, kicking at a rock. He blows out a perfect ring. I elbow him.

"Spot you can't keep this up," I tell him. "First thing in the morning, we're going down to the jewelry store—"

"Dammit, Racetrack, don't you think I've thought about this?" He snaps irritably. "She wouldn't say yes anyways."

They call him a womanizer. They don't know the poor fool's been stuck on the same girl for years now. If Spot Conlon loves anyone or anything, it's her. Any time I suggest proposing, he uses the excuse that she'll say no. I can't figure out if he really thinks this or not.

"Just give it a shot," I urge.

Spot shakes his head, nose almost in a snarl. "Nah."

"Why not?"

"It wouldn't work out. Look at the kind of life she's used to, and look at mine. I can't give her all of that."

"She'd give all of that up in a heartbeat for you," I cut in.

"And you think she'd be happy?"He's about to go on, but I interrupt to point out something very important. "Yeah, because she'd have you."

"No, Racetrack. She needs to find someone else." Spot takes a long drag. Nodding, he repeats, "Someone else. Who can give her what she deserves."

A sinking feeling starts to creep in. He sounds like he's reassuring himself. Paired with his attitude, something is wrong. "Spot, what did you do?"

He stares straight ahead into the night, unspeaking and not acknowledging me. Then he stands up. "See ya, Race."

"Spot Conlon, what did you do? What did you tell her?" My voice rises, afraid of what the stupid fool could have done. I jerk him back by the arm, and he wheels around on me. Shutting my eyes, I expect a blow from his cane, a bit embarrassed at showing fear of him, but it doesn't come. When I open them again, I find him glowering at his cigarette. It's lying on the ground, embers fading out.

"Dammit, Race, you made me drop my cigarette," he gripes.

At the moment, he probably doesn't care about that at all, it's just what he can use. I stare at him until he finally answers. "I told her what I just told you."

Spot turns his head away from me. He crushes the cigarette butt into the ground with his boot. I see him swallow hard.

They say he doesn't have a heart. They say he's the toughest newsie around. Only half of that is true. They don't know how often he gives up meals so other boys can eat, or without blankets and coats so the others can stay warm. They don't know he's worn the same two outfits for over a year now, and how threadbare and patched they are, because he makes sure his boys are clothed first. They don't know how he tries to put half of his weekly pay into the offering plate on Sundays. They certainly don't know he just left the only girl he's ever loved.

"You blasted idiot!" I shout when I register what he said, as the pieces fall into place. "What the hell where you thinking?"

But I know what he was thinking. He was thinking he'd break off ties with her, and that she would move on to someone with more money. And I'm thinking he's even more of a fool than I previously realized, because if she loves him half as much as he loves her, that will never happen.

"She's going to be fine!" He snaps back. His face is set in a harsh, defiant expression.

"I knew you weren't above lying to us," I say lowly, "but I didn't know you lied to yourself."

Spot hovers above me. He has to look down, and for a fleeting moment I wonder when he hit such a growth spurt, but then I remember what's going on.

It's barely above a hiss. "Well it's too late now."

We stare at each other for several strained moments. I shake my head.

"No. She may be crying her eyes out tonight, but you're going to fix that. We ain't selling tomorrow. We're going to go to the jeweler's, and you're going to pick out a ring. And then we're heading to Long Island with it."

"I can't pay for it," Spot roars, grabbing his cap and slamming it to the ground.

"To hell with money, she'd take a piece of string with a button on it if that's what you offered!"

By now people are starting to notice us. A few of the boys have stuck their heads out the window. Jack appears in it. "Hey Race, everything alright down there?"

"Yeah, we're just dandy," I call back up. Jack observes the scene for a minute, and then everyone disappears back inside.

"Why do you even care," Spot growls, much quieter.

I pick his hat up off the ground, dust it off, and shove it into his hands. "Because you're my friend, and I'm not going to put up with your sad, moping butt."

Spot takes a few steps backwards. "Then don't."

And he walks off into the dark. His usual swaggering gait is gone, but he holds his head high until he gets halfway down the block. There it changes so that it hangs, and his feet more or less shuffle through the dirt.


End file.
